


Winter Came and Brought us Home

by rocketsandraccoons



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, game of thrones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Typical Violence, Depression, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Implied Canibalism, Madness/Insanity, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Snow snow and more snow, Starving, Suicidal Thoughts, implied self harm, winter has come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1879926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketsandraccoons/pseuds/rocketsandraccoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'A war before winter will be the death of us all.' Her father had once told her. 'Should war hit before the coming of winter, set sail for the eastern lands, you shall live longer. For winter is dark, and cruel and unforgiving. And I would rather you survived in the unknown, than suffer in your home.'</p><p>She had been warned all her life that winter was bad. Winter was harsh. Winter was cruel. Oh, if only she had listened. Perhaps then she would not be suffering so. She is crippling, breaking, shattering and there is nothing to hold her together. She, like all her people, is becoming another tortured soul, waiting for death to finally claim her.</p><p>~On Haitus~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU, where should I continue the story the previous events will be explained. But I will give a quick, brief background.
> 
> The Stark childrens ages are different from what they are in the books/series. Jon was twelve when he left for the Wall, a year before Sansa, Bran and Ned all went south. Sansa was nine at the time, Bran six. A year later, Ned was killed. Bran went missing (as opposed to Arya) while Sansa remained prisoner. Robb marched south (Sansa and Robb story lines follow as they do in ASOIAF). Winterfell is not burned down, one of the Iron Islanders does, however, kill Catelyn and Arya (who was nine at the time of her death). Brienne eventually rescues Sansa from the Vale, she reclaims the north as Winter has arrived. (Gone a grand total of four years.)
> 
> I have changed a number of aspects to make the story a bit darker and more twisted. Winter is not very nice. Like really, really awful.

When her father told her war before winter was bad, she had not truly believed the depth of his words. She had not understood. But six years in, and she realised he had made things sound better than they really were.

Winter was cold, cruel and unforgiving. It took whatever it pleased, and there was little she could do to stop it.

She was trying. _Gods_ , how she was trying.

The green house flooring was heated – like the rest of the castle. The hot, under ground springs flooded through the walls, the floors – heating up the building, giving everyone some form of warmth. Food was able to grow in the green house due to the heated flooring – weak, tasteless food; but food none the less.

Everything was rationed. And every persons needs were put before her own. She had become thin and brittle, but she stood tall where the rest of her family had fallen. She was all the north had left. Whoever was truly left in the north that was. Her estimate was that there was some three hundred people remaining in her castle.

She often wondered how many others survived across the kingdom – had other lords let her people into their castles? Had they had enough provisions?

It ate at her. Wondering how many survivors there were or would be after winter was over, was driving her into madness. But there was little else for her to do.

The War of the Five Kings was one she wished had never occurred. She had began wishing that Robb had never began a march south to Kings Landing. She had wished that they had never ventured south in the first place, so that perhaps her father could guide her through her first winter. Perhaps it would be her helping her family through the tortured times.

 _A decade_. She had thought bitterly. _Why must winter be a decade, when all other seasons get a mere five years?_

_Though her parents had told her that summer had lasted seven years, and she dreaded to think what that might mean for their winter._

Perhaps if her family were alive, things would not be so difficult. She would not have to watch so many deaths, and help so many ill. She was down to a mere four healers. And for three hundred people, it was simply not enough.

She felt bitter and angry. Hating her people for being so weak. Hating Jon for abandoning their family. Hating her family for abandoning her. Hating herself for hating and hurting so, _so_ much.

When Old Nan had told her of Winter Madness, she never once thought it was she who would succumb to the darkness, the all encompassing abyss that was dragging her further into madness as each day went by.

And so when each day ended, she would lay in the bed of her childhood and she was scream and cry and sob and pray to whoever would listen to her, because she could not cope. How was a nearing insane _child_ , supposed to rule and protect a land that was decaying and succumbing to the winter?

She had been eight and four months the last time her family had all been together. She had just turned nine the last time she had seen her mother and sister. She would never see them again. Not until the winter claimed her too and she was taken to wherever their souls may be.

She was nineteen years of age, and was far from ready to rule a kingdom. Far less looking after decaying, withering, tortured souls who – like her – want to die, but are too afraid of giving up.

"Where's mama?"

And the children – or those that were left – just made her hurt.

Smiling bitterly, she lowered herself so that she was eye level with the five year old. "I am so sorry. Your mother is-" And her voice caught, because she hated having to be the one who does it. Having to be the one that shatters yet another part of these people.

" _No_."

At least she did not have to use the word. The boy had witnessed enough death for him to know what had happened. But despite being born into the bitter and cruel world, he still could not bring herself to believe that it could happen to him.

"I am truly sorry, sweet child. Death comes for us all, and unfortunately it was your mother who was chosen this time round." Her words were not kind, but neither was she.

The boy whimpered slightly, and tears trailed down his cheeks. Pushing herself forward, her arms wrapped around the nine year old boy. A winter child, whom she had prayed for personally.

_Gods, please, do not let him die. He is one of the few children left. Please, Gods, do not take him from us. Not yet. Not now. Not during the cold and cruel winter. Let him know the sun; truly know it. Please, my lords, let him discover spring at the very least._

But prayers seemed to be feeble attempts at preventing the inevitable.

Rickon was as parentless as she, and a part of her wondered if it was meant to be. She questioned the Gods that night, asking if the child the slept soundly beside her was to replace the babe she, herself, would never have. It was cruel and selfish to want a child she did not make, but Rickon was quiet and kind and helpful, with a spark of something wild in his eye. Everything she had once imagined a son of her own to be.

It was later that next day she was called to the throne room. She wanted to scoff at the fact it was even still called that. Yes, there was a throne and yes it was sat in a room, hall even. But the room was littered with torn and worn cloth and furs. Littered with odd bits and bobs that belonged to people whose faces she had long since forgotten.

But she sits on the throne, a useless crown placed above her head and her back is straight, her hands fold on her knees. Fold in the way she knows she cannot. For a queen must be strong for her people. Even if those people are simply ghosts waiting to come.

_Old Nan once told her that only monsters survive the world._

Perhaps it would be best if they all died.

The people that appear in front of her, she does not recognise. There are two men and a young woman, who clutches a young boy to her. The four look frozen, and she is surprised they have survived the journey to the castle. Ice and snow cling to them and they are shivering in the centre of the hall.

It is as the man stood just in front of the two others looks up at her that she recognises him, though she does not allow her face to demonstrate such recognition. He is older, as is she. His eyes are sunken, and far darker than they once were – though his eyes were always dark. His hair is limp and his skin is almost blue. Blue like the icy blue of Robb's eyes. His skin is tight and taught against his face and his full lips are cracked and look almost purple. A scar runs from the bridge of his nose and down across his cheek, meeting his chiselled jaw line. Its white and silver, standing out against his frozen skin.

He kneels in front of her, his clothes baggy on him, just like hers. She tries not to dwell on the sickly thin wrists hanging loose from a once tight dress. He utters not a word and her heart feels as if it is breaking, because he should not be bowing to her. But he is paying fealty to her all the same. His dark eyes staring at the sword he has placed on the ground in front of him.

She wants to run at him; grab him; shake him and beg. Beg for him to hold her and talk. Beg him to prove that he is real and that her mind has not truly cracked and that this is some sick, twisted fantasy her mind has conjured up for her.

She would not survive the fall from such a trick.

Her spine remains straight, and her gaze is steely as she looks at him. She cannot forget herself; forget who she is. But then, is that not what she has been doing from the moment she left when she was nine years old? Forgotten. She can barely remember who she is.

There are days where she cannot fathom the difference between who she was as a child, as the scared teen, the bastard Alayne and the icy, mad _Queen of the North_ that she has become.

"My queen." His voice is rough and dry, and so different from the voice in her memory. But it is the two words that hurt her. They stab at her heart, and she is sure the stinging at the back of her eyes is the desire to cry.

 _Say my name._ She thinks. _Why? Why would nobody ever use her name?_ She has been waiting for six years for someone to utter a word she has almost, completely forgotten. And he cannot even utter it in her presence. It hurts. Burns at her chest and she resists the urge to sink her teeth into her bottom lip.

 _She forgets herself._ Her lips curve upwards into a feral half smile. "Queen of what?" She asks, her voice a dry, bitter laugh.

She had returned home and did what she could to prepare herself and her people for winter. But what did a parentless, a _family-less_ , thirteen year old girl know about preparing for winter. She brought as many people as she could within the castle walls. She helped them, healed those she could, she talked to them and respected them and for what? To watch them die from famine, illness, decay. Death roamed the land. No blood was spilt. Oh no. Death was icy and white and oh-so cold. Taking lives in what should be a safe haven. Taking each soul whenever it could.

Her kingdom was that of corpses. Frozen bodies and white snow. Her kingdom was a white, barren, icy landscape. Her people were either all corpses, or starving, broken people waiting for death to claim them.

"Queen of _what_ , Jon Snow?" And she laughs a mad, broken laugh and tears drip down her cheeks because she is not a queen. She will _never_ be a queen.

Her mask has fallen for the first time in a while. And her laugh is hollow and mad and broken. It feels so good to let someone see just what winter – what _life_ – is doing to her. She trusts Jon. He can see what she really is: _Mad. Bitter. Broken._

He does not flinch. He simply stares at her with a broken look in his eye as her laughter subsides.

She stands. Wishing that he had already spoken her name. Wishing that he had even called her sister. Not queen. _Never_ queen. But what did he know? He abandoned his family to become a ranger of the Wall.

She walks towards him as he stands. She is shaking on her feet, tears drying – _freezing_ – on her cheeks as she gets closer to him. He has seen her, seen that she is broken – mad, even. Yet he does not back away, does not move from his spot on the floor. She is more grateful for that than she supposes he will ever know.

Her dry, brittle, twig like fingers grab his face. A palm on each cheek. His skin feels dry and cold, but she is unsure whether she is just feeling her own flesh pressed against the bones in her hand, or the skin on his face matches that of her hands. She pulled his head down slightly, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Welcome back, brother."

His eyes are shut and she lets out a shaky breath as she tried to pull up her walls once more. The people – _her_ people – cannot see her failing. Cannot see her breaking. Never has she been more relieved than in that moment, as she rests her forehead against his – feeling him. Feeling the cold that grips at him. He is _real_ ; flesh and blood and broken spirit, just like her.

"Winter has come, and brought you home." She whispered.

And his dry laugh nearly scares her. "This is not home, Sansa."

She sucked in a deep breath as her eyes met his. Sansa. _Sansa_. Her name. Gods, it had been so long since she last heard someone utter her name. She savoured the sound of it as she pulled away from her brother.

"Home is where the heart is." She responded somewhat bitterly.

Her heart would forever remain within the castle. Her heart tore when Jon left. It froze with her fathers murder. It broke with Bran's disappearance. It shattered with the death of her mother and sister. It turned to dust when Robb died. And the dust lingers in Winterfell. It will remain there, with her. No matter where she finds herself, she will always wish to return home because it is the only home she has ever, or will ever, know.

Her eyes moved to her brothers three companions. And she realised she had made the worst possible first impression. But they looked too frozen to care.

"Welcome." Her voice snapped back to the tone she used when speaking with her people – those she lives to serve. "I will have someone show you to a spare place to sleep."

Robbs chambers. Arya's chambers. Brans chambers. Fathers chambers – perhaps Jon would want those...

She turned her gaze to Brienne. "Robb and Arya's chambers are still... _unused_. Please take our new guests there. And show Jon to his old chambers, unless he would like fathers."

It was not out of cruelty that she did not give the chambers to her people. It was to prevent fights. If she demonstrated any form of favouritism it would risk her queenship – or whatever form of ' _leadership_ ' it was that she had. And so everyone slept in the various large halls there was too spare – body heat would help cover up the bitter cold that occasionally leaked into the castle.

It was only as her guests – because they were not her people (Those on the Wall were a neutral party out with society and so she had no authority over them, despite the fact Jon had paid fealty to her.) – that they got the spare chambers. Chambers she did not dare go near herself in fear of what she may feel should she enter them.

Only as Jon walked past her, did she notice the wolf behind him. How she had not noticed the creature before hand was beyond her. Verging on four feet high, with almost glowing silvery blue eyes. Fur that she assumed was once a beautiful white was limp, mangy and blood stained. She watched, confused as to what a wolf was doing following her brother.

 _She had forgotten she knew how he found him_.

Then again, she had a terrible habit of forgetting everything.

* * *

 

"Gilly, Samuel and Samwell"

Those were her brothers companions. Three year old Samuel looked much like his mother; a slim girl, the age of ' _Twenty and two years now, methinks, ma'am_.' Gilly had tangled, dark hair and beautiful brown eyes. Almost a head smaller than Sansa. But looking on the younger girl, Sansa could see the strength in her. She saw the hope in the girls eyes.

Sansa was sure she had never laid eyes upon someone quite so beautiful.

Soft, gentle hearted Sam with his wide, kind smile. Cheer and hope hidden in his sunken pale eyes. He was tall, almost six feet high, she believed. He was round and jolly and twenty three years of age, the same age as her brother, if she remembered rightly. He had full, cracked lips and a rounded nose. He was as large as he was tall. His heart was as fat as he, and she warmed to him almost immediately.

All he wanted to do was help.

And finally, she had a maester.

She sat with them to dine. Gilly, Samuel and Samwell opposite herself, Jon and Rickon – who was too terrified to leave her side.

Rickon liked Samuel but the wariness in his eyes as he looked at the younger boy did not escape Sansa's notice. Rickon was scared. Scared of losing another person. But so was Sansaa, and she was welcoming them in with almost open arms. After all, Jon was her brother and he would forever be welcome at her table. Whether he wanted to be welcome or not.

 _Home is where the heart is_.

She lost her heart a long time ago. But with her brother returned to her, perhaps she can forge something akin to a new one.


	2. Chapter 2

It was cold, bitter even. Stuck deep down in her bones. With every step – every breath – she could feel it. The ice. Freezing and crippling as she moved. It lingered in her skin. The north was no longer just in her blood; it was her blood, her body. She was the north, and the north was her.

The window was open, letting frozen air into the room. Frozen air that tore at her thin, cracking skin. She felt ridicules. She felt _pathetic_. But she supposed that she was. A Queen of death, decay and winter. It would not be the first time that she hung her head out of the window and looked down, wondering.

It would be so easy, _too easy_. To step up onto the window ledge and jump. No, not jump, just step. Step off out of the castle and let her body crumple and break. _Die out in the cold winter, like Robb_.

She thinks she has become _wrong_. A twisted, broken creature who thrives off of death and broken hope.

Her spirit had died with her heart. The Seven had never saved her, and the Old Gods had never been the merciful type. It was the Old Gods she prayed to at nights, when she lay in her bed – pale, thin fingers gripping into her upper arms as she sobs, yet no tears ever fall. She is naught but a broken monster, who steals the hope of the young to fuel herself.

Rickon. _Young, sweet Rickon_ gives her as much hope as he can.

_Young, sweet Rickon who look so, so much like Robb. Like Bran and mother._

It had been hard to ignore when she first seen him. The young boy she had thought to be Bran until she realised Bran was far, far older. And lost. Rickon had Tully hair and eyes, but the woman he had called mother was not a Tully. No, a wildling woman named Osha, whom Sansa did not think resembled Rickon in the slightest, was his mother.

But it had been the Tully look that had drawn Sansa to him. Her want, her need, to keep him close. A constant reminder of what she had lost, but a hope that perhaps she was not alone. She could pretend the boy was her brother.

But Jon was back. Her real brother – bastard brother – was back. In a room just a short walk away. Real – flesh and blood. He was real. _Real._ _ **Real**_ _._ _ **Real**_ _!_ She had felt him, solid and frozen. Blood pumped through his veins, and when he spoke it was him – it was _real_. She had a member of family, tarnished as he may be, with her.

She closed the window and let herself smile. Feral and broken. But it was a smile; the most real smile that had been on her face in a long time. She moved towards the door. _Rickon could sleep without her for one night_.

She slipped out of her chambers and padded along the corridor, headed for a room she had not been in since she was a young child.

She could only faintly remember the last time she had been in the room. Robb had taken ill and she had been terrified. Mother refused to leave Robb's side. Father had been visiting banner men. Arya had been sleeping soundly in her bed And Bran had slipped into her room and she had rocked him to sleep before slipping out of her own room. She was terrified for her brother; so worried and so she found herself stood outside of _his_ chambers. Her bastard brother, whom she had barely spoken to in almost a year.

She had slept in his room that night. Curled up against him, gripping his hand. He had let her in, no questions asked. He had comforted her as she lay next to him crying. He had been completely brotherly towards her, something she had not expected.

_And now he was all she had left._

So she tapped on the door, twice, before slipping into the room. The door closed behind her, and when she looked at the bed, she realised that he was asleep. A part of her was tempted to turn away, return to her room.

_But what if he left in the middle of the night?_

No. She had to keep him close. If only for one night. She needed to make sure it was him, that he was not going to abandon her. He had already done that once before. But even if he was to leave again, where would he go? _He was stuck there, with her_. And she grinned at the thought before approaching the bed.

She slipped into the bed, pulling the furs up to her chin. She pressed herself into Jon, one of her hands gripping tightly onto his arm. Afraid that if she let go he would disappear.

Once she had imagined how sweet it would be to see him again. And now she could. She could lay her eyes upon the bastard brother that she had once longed to see more than anything in the world. He could not disappear, not now that she had him back.

“ _You're all I have left_.”

* * *

 

“Are you going to Westeros?”

The man scoffed and shook his head. A dry laugh passed the mans lips. “Why the hell would I be going there? It's bloody winter over there.”

' _Winter is coming. And it will make ruins of us all_.' Or was it monsters? He could never remember.

But he frowned, nodded and made to turn away. “Look, boy. Why would you want to go there anyway? The Seven Kingdoms have been at wa-”

And he spun around with wide eyes and a snarl on his face. He did not need someone to tell him what he already knew. “I am aware of the war. Why else would I wish to return? I have a family over there.”

 _Had_. He had once _had_ a family in Westeros. Only the Gods knew if any of them remained. But a Stark must always be in Winterfell, and he needed to find a way home. He had been gone far too long. Gone. Gone so far he had almost lost himself. But he had pulled himself back, and now he had to return. _Now he had to get home_.

“You know what they say over there. A war before winter is a killer. If you do get back, I would not expect to find your family alive. And if you do, you won't recognise them.”

“Then I suppose that evens things up. I shall be as unrecognisable as them. We can start anew.” And he walked away.

He knew his own fathers words. He knew the dangers of winter. But he also knew his family. Or what was left of them at any rate. By the time he had been taken to Braavos, Robb, Jon and Sansa were all that was left. And he was determined to hold the hope that they were all still alive. He would not give up on that hope. And he was sure that they would not give up hope that he too was alive.

He did not care if it was winter in Westeros. He had been preparing for it to be so. After all, winter lasts a decade. And when he was being taken to Braavos, autumn was ending.

Winter was no longer coming.

Winter was there.

And Bran would be damned if he did not do all he could to return before winter was over. His family would need him. Just as he needed them.

 _He just had to find a way across the narrow sea first_.

* * *

 

He awoke to the sensation of an elbow digging painfully into his ribs. A terrified sob hitting his ears. He turned his head to see red hair, and for a moment, he thought it was Ygritte laying beside him; tossing, turning, crying, _screaming_. But he was pulled back to his senses when the name _Robb_ tore from the girls lips. The name became an almost chant as she tossed, turned and her body was lashing out against him.

He grabbed her wrists and positioned himself so that he was able to keep her pinned to the bed.

“Robb. ROBB. _ROBB_.” Louder and louder. A chant. A prayer. Desperation. “Please. _Please_. _NO_!” The anguish was tearing at him, and the guilt was eating at him.

He had lived and Robb had not. He wondered if she wished it had been Robb not him who had turned up in front of her. If he was dead and her full brother had lived.

 _He knew he wished it had been the opposite way round_.

He felt guilty and wrong. Perhaps he should never have turned up in Winterfell. He had not been thinking about the effect it may have on Sansa. All he could think of was warmth and home and saving Gilly, Sam and Sam.

But as he had said to Sansa, this was no home. The creaky, destroyed gates. The crumbling door that was guarded by two men, who had to pull all the barriers away simply to put them back into place to retain some form of heat in the castle. He supposed it worked to an extent, it was no where near as cold as it was outside.

_But there was no heat._

_He had become the cold and the cold had become him._

He had seen the parts of the walls that were crumbling. And the throne room... Oh how he had despaired. Odd bits and bobs strewn everywhere, and he knew. Just knew that those where the belongings of the dead.

And then there had been her. His sister sat on a throne he just knew she no longer wanted. He could see it in her heavy eyes as she sat there, her pale, gaunt face impassive. Her eyes held too much. As broken as his spirit, and he regretted not arriving earlier.

' _Queen of what, Jon Snow?_ '

 _Queen of nothing_. He had wanted to say. _Queen of rack and ruin_. _Queen of the dead and dying_.

But he had said nothing, watching almost horror stricken at what had become of his sister. His young, hopeful, beautiful sister who loved songs and stories and dancing. He had taken one look at her, and knew the girl he had been raised with was dead. As dead as the corpses he had witnessed being burned earlier.

He had returned though. Perhaps a little to late. He hated himself for that, for not having been able to return sooner. For not having been able to help her. He was her brother – her big brother. He had promised their father to protect her and he had failed. But he could make up for that. He could spend what was left of his broken life trying to make up for having left her alone for so long.

When her Tully blue eyes opened, they were as broken as he felt. What had once been bright and full of life, were dull and heartbreaking to look at. But he did so anyway.

“I thought you were going to leave. I thought that maybe, you were not real.”

 _Shit_. He thought to himself, and the guilt intensified. Because she had been suffering as much as he had. Though he supposed that everyone was suffering.

' _War makes ruins of us all, Jon. Winter shall take whatever is left. And whatever survives, is the monsters children are raised to fear._ '

He did not want to be a monster. He could not live with himself if he was a monster. Yes, he had done things he would never, could never, be proud of. But never had he been a monster. He thought returning to Winterfell would save him, could save him from whatever monstrous fate he was destined for if he had remained out in the icy wastelands. But Sansa, his sweet sister, was twisting and breaking and he was surprised there was anything truly left.

_Perhaps he could help save her from becoming a monster._

_He still held onto the hope that she might save him._

“I am as real as you are, little sister.”

“I am not so little, any more, Jon Snow.”

He frowned deeply, because she was right. Last he had seen her, she had been small, slender, flat chested and full of life. The Sansa he was with now was a woman, if she was not so thin, she would have curves – rather than jagged hips.

“No. You are not.” He responded quietly.

He could think up nothing that would express how sorry he truly was. Slowly, he pulled his hands from her tiny wrists. He was surprised it still horrified him that he could see the outline of the bones in her body. After all, he could see the same in Gilly. He had seen the same in so, _so_ many others.

Perhaps it was his memories of the girl he knew that made it so difficult to accept. He needed to get past them, because he would not last long focusing on the past. But then again, if he kept the young girl he once knew stuck in his head, perhaps he would be able to bring some of her back.

 _If he lived long enough_.

He had seen enough of the castle, of the people, to know that most of them were all just ghosts waiting to happen. It did not sit well in him, knowing that there were so many people that were just sitting waiting for death to claim them. He did not want to be one of those people who just waited. And suddenly he wondered if Sansa was also one of those people, sitting around waiting for death to come and finally take her.

“Will you return to the Wall? Wh- When winter is over, will you be leaving?”

Her voice was quiet and raw. She was scared, he realised. The fact that she was scared he was going to leave made him feel slightly better about the fact that he was not – _would never be_ – _Robb_.

“There is no Wall any more.” He told her, carefully, watching her face for a reaction. “It was torn down.”

Relief washed over her face before she gave a small smile. “So you will stay? Help me rebuild?”

“There is no where else I would rather go, anyway.” He replied in an almost bitter voice.

He did not want to be in Winterfell any longer. Seeing it broken and in ruin, with his twisted sister and the ghosts that haunted the halls. Winterfell was no longer his home, but he had nowhere else to be. And when winter ended, his it would all have to be fixed and he could never leave his sister to so alone. Sam could stay and be the new maester while Gilly could be given some sort of work as well.

_It would never be his family. But it would be a family none the less._

He could not ask for much more than that.

She had closed her eyes. “I am glad you are here.”

If it had been the Sansa he once knew, those words would never have been uttered, far less him ever believing them. And yet she had spoken them, and he had believed them.

Because he was glad to see her too. Even if she was not the girl he knew.

_She was all he had left._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Rickon is kicking about. Catering gave birth while Ned was away.
> 
> I would love to know what you guys think of this idea.


End file.
